


Equilibrium

by theladyscribe



Series: Hockey WIP Amnesty [12]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Canon Compliant, Falling In Love Via International Competitions, M/M, Philadelphia Flyers, Pittsburgh Penguins, Team Canada, World Cup of Hockey 2016, Worlds 2015, frenemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26667802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: Hockey Canada warned him in advance that Claude Giroux would be there, as if Sid would be anything less than professional at a national team event. He wasn't going to duke it out with Giroux while wearing the Maple Leaf. As far as he was concerned, they were teammates until the tournament ended, regardless of their regular-season rivalry.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Claude Giroux
Series: Hockey WIP Amnesty [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/814878
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

> This story was meant to be my Sid/Claude magnum opus, but things happen and stories don't always get finished. I have a lot of lines I'm really proud of in this, which is why I'm posting what I have of it. Fly! Be free, my darlings!

_Pittsburgh, April 2015_

Sid was ready to get out of here. He loved his team and he loved hockey, but this season had been a slog and he was antsy to be elsewhere. He was healthy and chomping at the bit, ready to catch the first flight out of town. He needed to go home and finish packing for Prague. Team Canada didn't expect him for a couple more days, but that wasn't going to keep him.

Luckily, he could give interviews in his sleep at this point, which meant that talking about the disappointment of an early playoffs exit while thinking about his packing list was easy. Yes, the early exit was disappointing. It was some bad luck, a few chances that didn't go their way, a couple of goals they'd like back, a few bounces that could have gone either way. Did he know what his summer plans were? Would he be headed to Prague? Sid cracked a wry grin at that. "I've spoken with Hockey Canada, for sure," he demurred, not certain whether his captaincy had been officially announced yet.

Finally, the reporters cleared out. Sid took a moment to take stock of the room. Most everyone was packed up already, sticks bundled and bagged, gear scrubbed and stored, the detritus of a season swept into the garbage cans Dana had placed in the center of the room. A few guys were already gone, and those that weren't were clearly finishing up, making for the door. Geno had been the first one out, probably heading home to throw clothes in a bag before hopping a plane to the Czech Republic. Sid knew about the ankle injury, but he also knew there was no way Geno would decline the invitation. When Russia called, Geno went.

And when Canada called, Sid went, even if this time he was the one who called them.

He waited until Dana was the last person left, tying up the garbage bags for the cleaning crew. They shook hands, and Sid hoisted his gear bag on his shoulder. "Have a good summer, Dana. See you in August."

"Good luck at Worlds," Dana called after him.

Sid turned and grinned. "Thanks."

*

_Prague, May 2015_

Hockey Canada warned him in advance that Claude Giroux would be there, as if Sid would be anything less than professional at a national team event. He wasn't going to duke it out with Giroux while wearing the Maple Leaf. As far as he was concerned, they were teammates until the tournament ended, regardless of their regular-season rivalry. He said as much when he spoke with Lamoriello and Babcock on the phone, and again to everyone who asked as obliquely as possible, from Tanger to the reporters to his own dad. He wasn't sure anyone except Babcock believed him, even when Giroux said the same in his own series of interrogations.

Still, Sid made a point of seeking out Giroux at the first full-team meeting. He was seated near the front of the room, ballcap on the table in front of him and a cup of coffee in his hand. He'd cut his hair since the last time Sid saw him, his curls no longer hiding his ears. It looked good, or at least better than the ragged mop of hair he usually sported.

"Morning, Giroux."

"Crosby," Giroux said, swiveling in his chair, thighs splayed. He didn't stand or offer his hand for a shake. Sid waited a beat, but Giroux just took a long sip of his coffee, apparently enjoying the moment.

"Good to have you here." Sid meant it, too. Whatever his personal feelings, Giroux was good at what he did -- one of the best, in fact -- and having him on the team could only benefit them.

"You too," Giroux said. His falsie sat a little crooked when he smiled. 

"What's this? A truce?" Sid turned to roll his eyes at Nate coming up behind him. Nate threw an arm over his shoulder, pulling him close. "Should I get my camera? Immortalize this moment?"

"Fuck off," Sid laughed, shoving him off.

"Gentlemen, take your seats," Babcock said from the doorway.

Sid glanced around the room, but there weren't many open spots left. He looked at the empty seat next to Giroux. "Do you mind if I--?"

Giroux shrugged. "So long as you don't bite me."

"You're the one who bites people, I thought." Sid set down his water bottle and took the seat.

"Only when I like them."

"I guess I'm safe, then."

Giroux gave him an indecipherable sidelong look. "Guess so," he said before turning his attention to Babcock.

*

That was how it went: Sid and Giroux were civil with each other, if not quite friendly, and the rest of the team -- really, mostly Nate and Segs, with occasional assists from Shea -- poked and prodded at the truce between them as if trying to egg them into admitting they liked each other. It wasn't going to work, no matter how many times Nate interrupted interviews to announce to the world that Sid and Giroux were best friends now and they could all go home.

Except, it did work. Get shoved into a restaurant booth next to a guy often enough, it seemed rude not to make small talk. Small talk turned into discussion of their opponents, which led to arguments about how best to run the powerplay against Sweden and stealing each other's drinks.

Sid tried not to stare too openly when Claude downed his lager in one go. He failed miserably, watching the way Claude's throat constricted as he swallowed. He needed to turn away, but he was frozen in place, caught by the smug glint in Claude's eyes.

"I was going to drink that," he said when Claude set the empty glass back down.

"Oh were you? Too bad." Claude patted him on the knee, his hand lingering on Sid's thigh. "I'll get you another one." He stood and made for the bar, no apparent unsteadiness in his gait.

"So you guys are buddies now, eh?" Segs said from across the table, drawing Sid's attention from watching Claude order more drinks by point at the taps. "What're the fans gonna say?"

Sid rolled his eyes. "It's only for the tournament. Don't worry, we'll go back to hating each other soon enough."

"Yeah," Claude said at his elbow. He passed a fresh beer to Sid. "The gloves'll come back off soon as we hoist that trophy."

"Don't jinx it!" Sid lifted his hand to put it over Claude's mouth -- a habit he'd developed when Duper spouted Cup predictions like a fountain -- but aborted the motion halfway through. He reached for his beer instead.

"We're the best team by a mile," Claude said. "It's not like this is a secret."

"You still shouldn't," Sid argued. "You'll jinx us. And it's rude."

"It's rude!" Claude mock-gasped. Sid felt a flair of that old irritation he generally associated with the Flyers and with Claude in particular. "Listen, Croz, maybe it's rude to say it out loud, but it's not a lie. We're the best, and you know it."

Sid couldn't really argue with that, but he wanted to. Claude's grin said he knew he'd won this round. Sid wanted to wipe it off his face. He settled for snatching Claude's beer and pulling the same stunt Claude had. He locked eyes with Claude and drained the glass, the beer crisp and nutty on his tongue. He thought Claude might try to steal it back or to take Sid's own half-empty glass, but he held eye contact with Sid. Sid didn't think he was imagining the heat in Claude's gaze, but this was neither the time nor the place to call him on it.

Sid finished the beer with a satisfied sigh and set the glass down.

"I was going to drink that."

"Oh were you?" Sid said, feigning innocence. "Too bad."

*

They went undefeated in the round robin, the only team to do so in the tournament. It was a heady feeling, even if it was just the preliminary round. The team headed for the bar that had become their regular spot in the two weeks they'd been in Prague, high on the 10-1 win over Austria and ready to celebrate. Sid took his usual seat between Claude and Nate, happy to be supplied a steady stream of fresh drinks without too much effort on his own.

Five rounds in, he was floating a little, the drinks and the warmth of the bar and the searing heat of Claude's thigh flush against his getting to him. It was time to go, before he did something stupid. He poked at Nate, who was animatedly telling a story about some fish he'd caught in the lake last summer. "Lemme out."

"Dude, can I at least finish my story?" Nate asked, laughing.

"No, your story's dumb, and I'm tired. I'm going back to the hotel." Sid poked him again for good measure.

"Okay, okay, fine, jesus." Nate moved out of the way, and Sid slid out of the booth. "Go get some sleep, old man, I'll see you in the morning."

Nate started to sit back down, but Claude pushed him away. "Hang on, I'm going, too. Gotta get my beauty sleep, and your stories are bullshit. You expect us to believe _you_ almost caught a five-foot bass? Really?" He rolled his eyes. "Pics or it didn't happen, MacKinnon. Everyone knows that."

"Yeah, yeah," Nate laughed. "I shoulda asked it to stop struggling so I could get a photo op. Go on, get out of here."

They made their farewells, and the two of them stepped out into the balmy Prague evening.

"They like you," Sid said, to fill up the silence between them as they walked the cobblestone streets.

"They're good guys."

"You're a good leader. You'd have been a good A for this team."

"I'd have been a good C."

Sid flushed. He'd known Claude was on the short list for the C before the Pens were knocked out of the playoffs, but he hadn't given it much thought when Hockey Canada offered him the captaincy. This was the first time Claude had indicated that he was sour about it -- to Sid, anyway. "For what it's worth, I didn't tell them to -- that is, I didn't pick the As."

"I know," Claude said, not looking at him as he crossed a street. "They offered me an A, and I turned it down."

Sid hurried to follow him. "What? Why?"

Claude stopped to let a motorbike pass in front of them. His face was cast in half-shadows, lit at intervals by a neon light flashing an advertisement for beer. "I wasn't sure I'd be a good fit, what with who was getting the C."

"You would have been. You are. You shouldn't have said no on my account. I wouldn't -- if I'd known, I would have --"

"Croz?" Claude said, stepping into Sid's space. 

"Yeah?" he whispered. Claude was too close, the air charged between them, and Sid was too drunk to do anything about it. He didn't dare to breathe, his heart pounding a loud tattoo in his chest. If Sid shifted even a little, they'd touch.

"Shut up."

Sid didn't let him draw back. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to the corner of Claude's mouth. He waited for a reaction -- cursing, or a swinging fist, maybe -- but neither one came. Instead, Claude stepped back, stumbling a little on the uneven paving stones.

"Don't," he said. "If you don't mean it -- don't mock me, okay?"

Sid stepped toward him, hand outstretched. "I wouldn't -- I'm not." He caught Claude's wrist and reeled him back in. "I want to. Can I?"

Claude stood silent long enough that Sid thought the answer was no. He loosened his grip, ready to release them both from the moment. They could head back to the hotel and pretend this never happened. It would be fine. They got along enough to get through the rest of the tournament, and then they could go home and hate each other again. Easy.

But the movement spurred Claude to action. He stepped close again and kissed Sid full on the lips with only the slightest hesitation. Sid wasted no time. He kissed Claude back, nipping at his bottom lip and tilting his head for better access. Claude's beard scratched Sid's chin, rough against the scrape from [player]'s stick. It stung, but Sid didn't want to stop.

They breathed heavily, foreheads pressed together. Sid tried to reignite the kissing, but Claude held back. "Wait, wait," he said, hands pressed firmly against Sid's collar bones. Sid braced himself for Claude to step back and say they couldn't do this, that he didn't want this. "Not here. We should --"

"I have a single," Sid said in a rush. "We could --"

"Yeah, let's -- let's go." Claude dropped his hands and spun to face the street again. Sid could only stumble after him, dazed and delighted.

By some stroke of luck, they made it back to the hotel without encountering anyone who recognized them, either teammates or fans. Ensconced in Sid's room, they made quick work of each other's clothes. Naked, Claude pushed Sid down on his bed. Sid went easily, ready and willing to do whatever Claude asked of him. Claude climbed over his thighs and sat heavily on his hips. The hair on his chest and legs was the same bright orange as that on his head. The hair between his legs was darker, though well-groomed. His cock was on the thin side, even half-hard. Sid would have no problem taking it, if that's where they were headed. He hoped it was.

One of the things Sid liked about himself was the breadth of his shoulders and the way he could cover a person even if they were taller than him. Not everyone liked it - he'd had more than one person push him back when he lay over them - but the ones who did seemed to really like it.

Claude was one of these. Sid leaned over him, wanting to get a feeling for what Claude liked, and Claude tugged at his shoulders and muttered "fuck yes" just before crashing their teeth together. When Sid tried to pull back, Claude grabbed at his hips and lifted his own to grind against him.

The elimination rounds were a different beast from the round robin in more ways than one. The competition was tougher, the absolute rout of Belarus excepted. Russia and Team USA arrived in Prague late on the 14th. Sid had his customary international competition lunch with Geno on the 15th before they went their separate ways until the tournament ended for one or both of them. And Claude spent more time in Sid's bed than his own.

_Nova Scotia, July 2015_

He and Geno didn't talk constantly in the summer, but they didn't go radio silent either, not since Sid's concussion, when he would set aside thirty minutes of his precious screen time each week to skype with Geno to "help with his English." It had been a flimsy excuse to talk with someone about anything other than the sordid details of Sid's recovery. Mostly, Geno had spent the calls telling him all the hot gossip straight from Moscow or describing at length the fish he'd caught while on vacation. They didn't have set dates and times anymore, but they still managed to chat every couple of weeks or so, and they both knew the other was just a phone call away if needed.

Geno was in Miami, if the photos of the sailfish and amberjack he sent Sid yesterday were any indication, so he didn't even need to wrangle timezones. Sid could just call, and Geno would pick up.

He opened his contacts and scrolled to Geno's name, below Horny and above Giroux. His thumb hovered over the screen and on impulse, he tapped Giroux instead.

He doubted Claude would pick up.

It rang three times with no answer. Sid moved to end the call before it went to voicemail, but just as he pulled the phone from his ear, he heard a breathless, "Hello?"

"Hello?" Sid answered back, feeling stupid. "Giroux?"

"Croz? Did you call me by accident?"

_Pittsburgh, November 2015_

No one on the team knew that Sid liked men, or if they did, they never asked him about it. He liked women, too, and had spent most of his adult life in a committed long-distance relationship with one, so it wasn't like he'd had a reason to tell anyone. Kathy had ended things over the summer, bringing to a close the longest relationship Sid had ever had outside of hockey. He wasn't lonely - far from it, what with the team and his family and his friends from back home, a constant rotation of people he loved moving in and out of his orbit. But he was alone, and he missed having someone to come home to after a hard game or a long road trip.

The season was already in full swing by the time Sid realized he missed that part of being in a relationship. He was also in a slump, unable to make anything happen on the ice, feeling smothered by Johnston's system and increasingly frustrated by it. That was to say nothing of his off-ice worries. Duper's blood clot issues had taken center stage recently, but he wasn't the only one Sid fretted about. Duper was putting on a stoic front, deliberately downplaying things for Sid's sake, but Tanger wasn't half so held together. He made frequent appearances in Sid's kitchen, pacing between the island and the breakfast nook, filling Sid in on the terrifying details that Duper refused to tell him.

_Toronto, August 2016_

The knock came while Sid was going through his post-party wind-down. He spat toothpaste foam in the sink and went to answer the door. It was probably someone wanting one last look at the trophy before they crashed for the night. Sid didn’t have it - the guys from the hall of fame already packed it away for the night - but he could assure whoever it was that they’d won and yes, it would still be there in the morning.

He opened the door to find Claude half turned, as if he’d decided Sid wasn’t in — or he’d lost his nerve and was running away.

“If you’re looking for the trophy, it’s not here,” Sid said, his voice surprisingly steady for the way his mind was racing. They’d hardly spoken during the tournament, had barely seen each other except in passing since Claude’s injury.

“I’m not,” Claude said, his back still turned.

“Do you want to come in?”

“No,” he said. A door slammed further down the hallway. Claude flinched. “Yes.”

He pushed past Sid, too brusque to be anything but bluster. Once inside, he didn’t seem to know where to put himself, hesitating at the sight of the bed, still made up. He turned, maybe to leave, but Sid was still in the doorway.

“Want to sit?” Sid asked, gesturing at the two high-backed chairs by the small table.

“No,” Claude said again. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I’ll just--"

"Claude."

Claude froze.

"What's the wildest thing you've ever done?"

"You mean ever or, like, sexually?"

"Either. Both, if you want."

"Okay." Sid thought it over, but there was really only one answer. "I had a threesome once."

"What?" Claude sputtered. "No way. Seriously?"

"Yes way," Sid laughed. "Despite what your fans might say about me, I've been around the block a time or two."

"It's a wonder, when you use phrases like 'been around the block.' But tell me about this threesome. I want details, Croz. Was it two girls? Were they hot? Did you have to pay them for it?"

Sid kicked at Claude's feet. "Shut up. I'm not naming names, but it was a couple. They wanted to, ah, spice things up in the bedroom, and they asked me if I was interested. So." He shrugged. Cath and Tanger hadn't wanted to run the risk of it getting out, especially with Cath's television deal and the kids' clothing line. Both of them had been very accommodating, and Sid had a good time. "I'd do it again if they wanted."

"You wanna know when I first thought about it?"

Sid lifted his head just enough to see the top of Claude's where it lay against his belly. "When?"

Claude shifted, scraping his beard on Sid's skin. "You remember the Gatorade media thing with the sledge teams?"

"Yeah." They'd been named captains of the two teams and barely interacted except on the ice. It hadn't been hostile, but it hadn't been exactly friendly, either.

Sid could feel Claude's smirk against his belly. Claude brushed a hand over his inner thigh, dragging his nails through Sid's leg hair. "The straps don't fit! They don't fit around my giant ass!" he said, pitching his voice to mimic Sid. "That was the first time I thought maybe I should bang you."

The confession startled a laugh out of Sid. He remembered that moment; it was the sort of thing that he could either laugh or cry about. There'd been enough times when he was younger that the betrayals of his body -- both physical and mental -- had brought him nearly to tears that he made an effort now to laugh about them. Trying to fit him into a hockey sledge had been an easy laugh, good for the cameras and for the mood of the day. He hadn't realized that Claude had witnessed it.

Claude sat up. "There, that. You laughed just like that, and I thought I'd like to make you laugh like that and get your thighs around my head." He pressed his thumb into the skin just above Sid's kneecap. "Guess I've succeeded in both now."


End file.
